


Small Beer and High Stakes

by shinobi93



Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2 - Shakespeare
Genre: Alcohol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1317643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/pseuds/shinobi93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal deconstructs, and makes a quiet night worthwhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Beer and High Stakes

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to thepurposeofplaying on tumblr for sharing drinking headcanons and encouraging me to write this, I hope it's alright. I spend too much time thinking about Hal as manipulator, so I might as well use it occasionally.

Hal works a coin between his fingers as he makes his way down the lane. With each repetition he thinks, _what will it be tonight?_ Which game is to be played? Not specifically gaming, though flapdragon is always an option, burning flame and the flirt with danger he knows is no danger at all. Reminds them that they’re alive. If Falstaff were asked the question, he would begin to list all the drink within his means, which is little, and then all the drink outside of his means but inside Hal’s, which is much, much more. _But Jack_ , Hal would say, _I did not ask whether sack or canary or whippincrust, I asked what to do_. And Falstaff would look, as if were totally obvious, and say _drink, my lad, what else?_

Hal does not need such advice. He is well aware of the uses of drunkenness.

The coin is almost shining now, rubbed of all dirt by Hal’s fingers. The bright metal glistens only when it catches the light of the moon, round and bright tonight; otherwise, its shine is hidden in the shadows of the evening. As the coin turns, his smile grows. Such a transformation works on even the heaviest day. By his foot’s first step inside the tavern door, he will be ready. He will hand the coin to the night’s lucky individual and throw his arms wide in greeting, opening himself up to the low company who serve his purpose so well. Their unwitting faces, eager to please the prince, are a sight to behold, red with drink and jollity (though none so much as Bardolph, the illuminated fool). Luminosity, lighting up his misdeeds whilst hiding the path he took to get there. That would take far more candles than can be found in Eastcheap.

Close now. Tonight he could put on a show, play a part upon a part as Jack’s laugh booms round the room. Stand upon the table and imitate the Lord Chief Justice, solemnly denouncing the crimes of all in the room but his own. Their crimes are petty in the scheme of things. So are their lives. He could point at Jack and ask _who is this man who drinks so much sack_ , a pretty rhyme though a lie, for Jack Falstaff is not unknown. Jack would love it. Still, Hal does not feel like a play, not today. He shall save it for when he has new material, a better jest to execute than the same old jokes over and over again. Then they’ll hang onto his every word.

One booted foot steps over the threshold of The Boar’s Head. A perfect fit. The coin leaves his fingers and arcs toward a tapster’s hand, but Hal does not look to see his acknowledgement. A certain coolness can work as well as ten smiles. He thinks the movement perfect, a flick of the wrist, but under the noise of the tavern he hears the coin clatter to the ground behind his back. Hal still does not look round.

In a dark corner is Ned Poins. Watching, Hal knows, dark eyes darting, seeking a trick, entertainment for the prince, better than Falstaff, or better still, at Falstaff’s expense. Hal’s companions compete, but they know their differences, too. Hal doesn’t need people who fulfill the same role. Poins waits, lean and lurking. In his mind, Hal sees Poins drinking with a naturalness Hal can never quite achieve, tearing pieces of bread with nimble skill, jumping upon a stool to mock being now above Hal in height. The latter occasion, Hal had grinned and kicked the stool away from under his feet. Poins, drunk and joyous, had hissed an insult at Hal where anyone else would’ve got a threat if lucky, a branished knife if not. Loyalty Hal does not deserve.

_Did you see-_ Hal mutters under his breath, half facing Poins and half turned to the night’s company. _Blamed himself for dropping it_ , replies Poins, then nods towards a table. _The old rogue wants you, my lord_.

_Sweet Ned, my messenger_ , says Hal, but Poins does not look appeased. _Feed him brandy and he’ll sleep_ , he hisses, the _out of our way_ left unsaid. Hal shoots him a warning look and moves towards Falstaff.

Jack is in a melancholy mood, it is clear, though he forces himself into joviality for the prince. The drink has been flowing since Falstaff opened his eyes to the day; however, Hal doubts that was anywhere near the cock’s crow. The mood will get Hal nowhere, for Jack like this is best for joking proclamations of life’s unfairnesses, a sardonic kind of fun that Hal has no patience for tonight. Tomorrow, Hal will ensure a better opportunity, arrive earlier and let Jack choose the entertainment, but for today he simply pours more wine and clinks his cup against Falstaff’s. Soon enough, Jack is snoring, slouched against the wall as Hal catches sight the endeared sigh of Mistress Quickly. She will let him rest there.

_A drink or a jest, my lord?_

Poins appears behind Hal’s shoulder. From his look, it is obvious that he knows which Hal will answer with. Hal himself already feels the recognisable pull of letting go, slightly, controlled but less than usual. The night is not a waste, additional colour on an already busy picture, but he shall assert his will over something else, the will for pleasure that even he must concede at times. Measured, for those few seconds in which he is not. This is company that can teach the power of purposeful oblivion every now and then.

With alcohol and their usual understanding, they disappear through a corridor and upstairs, to a room with a lock. Hal knows about locking things away, too. Soon he will turn the key on this life, but first, he will forget for just a few seconds, and gain a fleeting glimpse of what it might be like were the stakes not so high. It is a good reminder of how little he would want that life. Hal does not play for trifles. Dissembling thus, he plays to win.

**Author's Note:**

> Inaccuracies I blame on Shakespeare and his anachronisms (well, the fact that I know history plays not medieval history). Also the mention of whippincrust comes entirely from how much it makes me laugh in Doctor Faustus.


End file.
